Without Him
by phantomsherlock
Summary: John feels lost and he can't live without Sherlock. He decides to visit the place where they used to live and he finds out the past hurts him . John suddenly looses himslef and wants to end his life. Desperate, he finds death is not the solutuion to his problems, thanks to someone very special.


**Without you **

"221B Baker Street, please."

The cabbie pulled out, and John looked at the driver investigating him. He had grown aware of these people because of what had happened with Sher… He could not bear to think of that name. He sniffed and looked away to glance at the gloomy Sunday. The sky was a boring gray and it was chilly. It was bitter cold and there was barely any traffic. Of course, it was 5pm on a Sunday afternoon, there was no one outside. The taxi turned through many streets and John felt as if he were driving the car because he had taken the path so many times. He started feeling nostalgic and suddenly a warm feeling appeared beside him, and he saw the long black coat and purple scarf, those black curls, and when he turned to look at the pale face and those blue eyes, it was all gone. There was just an empty space beside him. He nodded and closed his eyes and managed to hold his tears.

"Here we are, mate." They stopped at a wooden door. Embedded the golden letters 221 B shone. He paid the cabbie, said thank you, and a stayed few moments staring at the door. He clenched his hands tightly and took a deep breath. He took out the old keys, and opened the door to the past. He entered to a hall that was dull and dark soundless

"_That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."_

"_You invaded Afghanistan."_

He snorted loudly and smirked. He looked at the stairs. He cleared his throat and step by step he remembered every smell, every time he had looked at Sherlock, talked to him, touched him… and he faced to the _other_ door. He found it was unlocked, and his hand trembled when it took the hand knob. It felt cold and it was dusty. The room had been untouched all this time. The black and white wall was pinned with the bullets Sherock had shot when he was bored

"_BORED!"_

Both couches were still waiting for their owners, and the skull saluted John forcing a smile.

"Well hello to you," John said to Sherlock's friend. The curtains had collected a massive amount of dirt and dust in the past year, and the room hadn't seen a ray of light in a very long time. He opened them widely, and the light revealed the little white specks floating in the air. He saw Sherlock sitting with his crossed legs and face, lost in his mind palace. He had his hands placed below his chin and his sharp cheekbones shone like razors. Next to the window, there were the music scores Sherlock had composed. John took them and flipped the pages, smelling the pleasant odor that calmed him so much. John had never learnt how to play or read music, but he had memorized every single piece Sherlock had composed.

"_How do you feel about the violin?"_

"_I'm sorry, what?_

"_I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."_

"And now you're not even here," he whispered to himself. Once again, John held his tears and blinked rapidly taking a deep breath.

He turned to his red couch and stroke it, remembering how many time he and his detective friend had interrogated people.

The kitchen smelled a lot. Something was rotting and he imagined how many things were hiding in cupboards and shelves. He opened the fridge, and a strong disgusting odor hit him. He closed the door quickly and didn't open it again. Christ, did it smell bad. He opened one of the drawers and found spatulas, dozens of burnt test tubes, and amongst those things, some spoons and knifes. He then realized Mrs. Hudson had not been in the apartment as long as he. John was sure she was as hurt as him. Of course, John felt something else for Sherlock; something stronger, and something that he had never confessed to him. The table was messed with scientific things John had never understood and he chuckled to himself happily.

"_You can't just break into my flat."_

"_Well you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into you flat."_

"_Well what do you call this then?"_

"_A drugs bust"_

He then faced the pale door. It just stood there waiting to be opened. John didn't want to go in. He knew it would hurt him, and that he would regret this. But, he had to do it. He had to feel his scent one more time; just feel him close.

He opened the door slowly. There was a strange silence, and John only heard his heavy breathing. The bed was messy, undone, like his curly hair. The white sheets drew his silhouette, tall and strong. He stroke them. They were soft as a feather, and they invited John to sleep in them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the purple robe. It hang there, inside the wardrobe. John reached for it and one again, tried to withhold his tears, but this time he let go. His soul broke into a desperate cry, his knees grew weak and he fell to the ground. He took the robe gently, and stripped down. Layer by layer, he felt colder and colder, until his skin was completely uncovered, and he put on Sherlock's robe. It was still warm, and he felt Sherlock hugging him tightly, and John whispered beneath his tears, "don't let me go, please."

He crept into the bed, and wrapped himself between the white sheets, breathing in the perfume of his body, feeling every part of his body shiver. He bit the pillow, and cried unstoppably. He missed him so terribly much. How could he live with this any longer? The pillow carried his tears away, and his eyes turned red. It had been so long since he had cried like this. He was feeling empty as if there were a hole in his soul, and all the monsters haunted him.

Suddenly, a rush of desperation flew through his veins and he dashed to the kitchen. He searched everywhere, it had to be somewhere. The drawers didn't have it, the Persian shoe just had dozens of cigarettes, the cupboards held other things. And then he found it; the crystal container with the label 'rat poison'. His hands shivered and he struggled to open the lid. He wasn't going to drink it; that would be painless, instead he looked for a syringe. He took it and dashed to the bedroom where he would die in Sherlock's presence. The syringe sucked most of the liquid, and he looked at his pale arm.

"This is it, Sherlock; I can't live like this anymore." He stared at the horizon and made the decision. He was ready to end his life right here right now, and then…

"There are far better ways to commit suicide, you know?" The deep voice rumbled across the room, and John stood frozen holding the pointy needle just centimeters away from his arm. He turned around slowly, and saw that tall, mysterious, handsome man. He sat on the bed, smirking face, and he was just wearing the bed sheet he had worn to the Buckingham palace. He inspected John from head to toe, "the robe fits me better, to be honest."

"You… you're alive."

There was a long pause between them, and then John correcte himself, "you're not. You're just part of my imagination."

"Yes. You have just come to the point between life and death and now I appear because you hope that somehow I am alive so now we are talking which is a sign of schizophrenia, and I highly recommend you visit your psychiatrist again, and now I, a product of your imagination, have convinced you to not commit what you were just about to do."

John took a deep breath, still holding the needle tightly "Then tell me, are you alive or not?"

"Yes John. But just in your head."

"So you're not."

"I don't know"

They both smiled at each other, "could I… can I… go to bed with you?"

"Of course, John." He smiled and made room for John. The doctor smuggled next to him, and they lay face to face, gazing at their eyes. John leaned to kiss him, but Sherlock backed away, and stopped him.

"Remember I'm just an allusion John. I don't want to hurt you." John nodded and he just stared at that face for hours. They smiled from ear to ear and laughed; no words. The light vanished and John felt into a profound sleep.

He woke up several hours later, and he saw that it was dawn. He checked if Sherlock was still beside him, but the space was empty. He smiled to himself and said,

"Oh, Sherlock… You're still out there, I know it." He went to take a warm shower and then dressed to his yesterday clothes. He organized the bed, and closed the curtains of every window. He sighed and locked the door.

John didn't want to see Mrs. Hudson, so he went down the stairs tiptoeing. He left 221B Baker Street hopeful, but still empty without his friend. And along he walked disappearing into the streets of London, caring a purple robe in his hands.


End file.
